26 Febrero: A farmer of time
Days & Days
26 Febrero We live in a leaky castle from the 1980s that is actually from the early aughts. A paloma walks in the door. There is a vaquero motif going on. I like the orange trim on the ceiling, the domed brickwork like a basket. I like the garden of roses and hibiscus at our stoop. We cook on one burner mostly as it’s unclear with the oven when the gas is on, or off. The sweet old dog our neighbor left behind sleeps on the couch, begs for kiwi, peanuts, cookies, meat. From the window I see cats on other rooftops. I see roosters, a headless saint, a garden of potted frogs, bell towers, laundry on the line. There is a whole city right there. I love the sound of the tortillería gears. At night the soft hills are soft with little lights. So many Guadalupes in tinsel or blinking strings. The houses are painted purple, pink, green, orange, yarrow, azul. Wheatpaste posters. Dog shit. A broken clay pot for pulque. A man playing a can. The hot young mother who works the tiendita sits outside, smoking. Who wants some dorilocos? Or is one? We each packed two bags, so now we have much less to clean. Our clothes become so boring to us. I am briefly not a farmer of stuff, and have become a farmer of time.
A pretty street in Guanajuato. Pic by me. P.S. A few friends have asked for book recommendations for these times. Here are three: a novel, a book-length essay, and a children’s book that adults love too: The Plot Against America, Philip Roth The Illiad, Or, the Poem of Force, Simone Weil Elsie Piddock Skips in Her Sleep, Eleanor Farjeon